Of Queens and Rooks
by penned.in.sanity
Summary: There was a kiss. And another. And a prince. And a summer apart - somewhat. DanBlair post 4x17 and on.
1. Prelude

A/N: This story has slightly changed its focus. No longer a one-shot, this is the prelude to the story – the jumping off point for there relationship. It doesn't entirely follow the season (Chuck and Serena find out differently) but this first part was written during the long hiatus.

prelude.

…

_Because they're not – absolutely not – where they are (there)._

She likes to believe the world had an affinity for playing cruel tricks on her, that it viewed her life as some sort of cosmic joke. She'd scream if she could, but she's tried before and damn if doesn't do a thing. The world or whatever is up there playing chess with her life has mistakenly played the queen too close one of the rooks – and now she's kissing it.

She can tell you with absolute certainly where she isn't. She can tell you with absolute certainty where she shouldn't be. She can tell you with only slight certainty where she can't be. But she won't tell you with any certainty – or even at all – where she is. Or who she seems to be pressed quite tightly against right now.

Her brain will reel back later that night to figure out exactly how everything seemed to wind so out dreadfully of control, so off kilter with her life spinning around her in slow motion, like she was trapped in one of those montages they _didn't _watch together, until she spun so softly into the arms of none other than Dan Humphrey. Of specifics, she doesn't remember much, just some smooth words tumbling out of his mouth speaking things she dared not even think and then – _woosh – _the world flew away. There he was (not, no he definitely was not) in ensnared in her slow-motion and then – did she just do that?

If she ever had to give a testimony about the incident, with her tongue barred under oath, she'd have admit, rather painfully, that she initiated it – the kiss. She just wanted to pull herself from her slow motion prison, ground herself in his lips, and suddenly the world fell away.

It isn't like Nate, relaxed (stoned) and decidedly young and unknowing; it isn't like Chuck, fiery, forbidden (at the time), and undeniably fleeting. It was something all unto itself: timid yet sure, strong yet soft, innocent yet completely and utterly wrong. It was a conglomeration of oppositions, of sparks and calming waves, all stemming from the simple act of a kiss. If there was one thing she could be sure of in this sea of confusion that was rapidly breaking over her life, one sure thing about this kiss, that it's all consuming. Because his hands are tip-toeing across her skin; because her heart is pounding out of her chest to meet his; because her hands are gripped white around his coat, keeping him all the closer.

They'll stand there for what seems like a lifetime and a half, mouths finding a new battle ground; tongues once so sharp with words seem to dull against each other, trapped in a melodic repartee. She wants to sigh, moan, make every contented sound she can because she hasn't felt this secure in some time, and damn it she's going to let it slip away. So they'll continue to stand there, willing the need for breath away.

Eventually it comes though.

Just as she started it, she shakily pulls away, mere millimeters, with their eyes still padlocked shut against the world and reality most probably crumbling around them. Ragged breaths meet halfway and there's really not enough air in this damn penthouse because she's feeling a slow suffocation gripping her lungs. There is every carnal desire within her to go back to that place (his lips) and permanently die there, but her brain is gaining momentum grasping on to the reality of her (their) situation much, much faster than she would like. And it knocks all of the remaining wind out of her.

_She. Kissed. Dan. Humphrey._

She thinks she may have just broken the land-speed record (in heels no less), because her feet are suddenly under the plush carpeting of her bedroom and he's _far, far away _in the foyer. She could have sworn her name slipped audibly from his lips as her feet flew beneath her, but honestly she's not sure of much of anything right now.

As she stand here (not there - in his arms, under his lips), the world chokes all emotion from her; she wills herself to believe she's always been here, never there.

…

_Because they're not – absolutely not – what everyone else sees._

When the queen kissed the rook, the king's soul set ablaze.

The world had always had a funny way of giving him the middle finger in times of trouble or panic, and he swears that that damn finger is waving manically in front of the image that is forming before his eyes. Somewhere some kid is setting his ant heart afire on this sidewalk of a penthouse floor with a magnifying glass masquerading as the midnight moon. Burning, he watches them some mixture of masochism and shock.

Blair (_his _Blair) stands pressed against none other than Humphrey; tongues embattled and hands gripping, they are nothing but a hazy nightmare floating before his disbelieving eyes. To his right, out the corner of one of his eyes, a flash of blonde whips away, trailing in waves behind a tear-struck face. He's always been one for conflict, confrontation, but his burning heart is making any words crumble to ashes in his throat and he can't breathe.

His feet stumble backwards towards the open elevator and he feels decidedly young, like a little boy who has just caught his parents together, both confusing and scaring. He turns his face to see a blonde curtain hiding the tears, leaning against the side of the elevator with arms wrapped tightly around herself. He realizes in the short (although it feels like he just lived a lifetime) moments they stood there and watched what could not be happening, the two stood oblivious, enraptured in only each other. It is in that moment when he feels his feet drag him into the elevator, away from her, he realizes fate may have been playing him a fool all this time.

Because honestly, what kind of fate lets the queen and the devil ride off into the sunset together.

Quiet sobs murder the sullen silence as Chuck and Serena lean against the slides of the plummeting elevator.

…

_Because they're not – no, absolutely not – going to talk about this._

She knows before his tentative footstep imprints itself in the plush carpet of her bedroom that he wants to talk. He is a man of words; explaining, creating, thinking, he does it all with copious syllables and melodic phrases, but right now, the words that always flow off his tongue like a literary Niagara Falls fall dead and current slows to a stop. He wants to steady himself for battle, for their verbal sparring to which he become so accustomed, because damn it he needs to figure out what the hell is going on, but he finds his mind is only thinking a battle of a different manner, one involving just as much tongue but far less words.

His feet have lead footprints to her as she sits perched on the edge of her bed. He opens his mouth to say something, what he's not sure but the oppressive silence is becoming too much to bear. They're never silent; it's never been a characteristic of their – well he's not sure what to call it. But before his muddled brain can form at least one coherent syllable, she beats him to the punch (just like she always does).

"Not now Humphrey, just not now." It's a exasperated plea, and one he probably should have listened to, but he's not going to just wander around the city for the rest of the night wondering, thinking. She's already consumed too much of his brain tonight as he walked up and down the blackened streets, illuminated with bright, sparkling lights, waiting for some sort of ah-ha moment. Instead he found himself in the foyer of her penthouse losing his mind.

He's convinced his mouth is both a gift and a curse, that his words will help make him (literarily) and break him (emotionally).

"Blair." Her name feels funny on his lips, like he's not sure it's supposed to be there. "Look about downstairs, earlier – I mean, I just think we need to, you know, talk about this – well _that _I mean – and…." It's rambling and broken but he's starting to get somewhere before she interrupts (like nothing else is new).

"Humphrey, let me get one thing straight, we are, under no circumstances, going to talk about this- er, that – incident. You and I are going to go back to exactly what we were before, two separate individuals who just happen to have people in common. You will march back over the bridge and out of my life. Do you understand Humphrey?" She's staring at him, using her commanding queen tone as if he's just something she can dismiss at a whim. He wants to yell at her, scream, because that _just one kiss _was anything but that, and she needs to stop living in her bubble of plausible deniability. But he finds himself saying no such thing, because here in front of his Brooklyn eyes is a tear stricken Blair Waldorf.

There's no un-ladylike sobbing or sniffling, no emotional hysterics or screaming, just her sitting very small on the edge of her bed, with tears sliding gracefully down her cheeks.

"Humphrey, did you become deaf in the last two minutes? I said leave." She's conveying as much control as she can, but he can see her breaking in front of his softening eyes. Before he can register, he's in front of her kneeling awkwardly. "Humphrey, leave!" she's pleading softly but all of her fight has drained away leaving nothing but a scared little girl, with watery eyes.

"Dan, please…" And he kissed her, again.

She honestly should have slapped him immediately because he really is a terrible listener, but she's lost somewhere in his mouth and down the rabbit hole she falls.

Her fingertips are softly grazing his cheeks and the nape of his neck. Her sharp tongue has found refuge with his as his lips move in melodic rhythm with hers, and they are far (far, far) away in an oblivion of their own creation. Where they need no explanations.

They are not a definition, but an open-ended question.

He breaks out of their oblivion this time, pressing his forehead against her as to cement her to him, but it's not like she could go anywhere seeing that at some point in last minute or so (when he was lost) they had found their way fully on to her bed. He can feel her choking out sobs underneath him, tiny body trembling because, really, this (them) was too much to handle. He should run – avoid all crying women a mantra of most men – but he just remains.

For a man of so many words, he cannot find one that could calm her, reassure her, heal her; instead he holds her in their oblivion, safe from the world around. In the wake of all of the drama surrounding the rest of his family, their situation seems trivial, but here was this strong woman – a queen – crying her soul out. Out of everyone else on this godforsaken island, he should be the last one with her.

There's a paralyzing fear that surrounds their oblivion – because dear God this isn't happening.

He'll hold on to her as the sun wades in, illuminating all. And there on top of silken sheets sleep the queen and a rook, as fate's hand slowly slips away.

…

_Because they're not – absolutely not – in her bed. _

She sits with her back pressed against one of her thousand dollar pillows in a rumpled couture dress staring at the equally rumpled man haphazardly lying across her bed. Her face has dried of tears, as has her heart, and now she finds herself at a dangerous precipice with only this man to catch her should she choose to fall.

"Dan," she whispers, as if his supposed super sonic hearing will be wakened by this feeble call. Sighing, she sips her coffee. "Dan." It's more audible this time, since she doesn't hear Serena banging around the bathroom she can only assume she's with Ben or someone, and therefore doesn't fear her blond friend walking in on this unexplainable situation.

"Dan!" She's getting quite exasperated with this and she's seriously considering implanting her foot upon his head. "Humphrey!", the last syllable punctuated with (some what) light tap on the head by her foot.

"Ahhh, what was that for?" he groans as his sleepy eyes rise to meet her intimidating ones.

"I'm sorry, I just was making sure you weren't dead or something. Honestly, I'm beginning to worry you may have some kind of hearing problem." 

"Yes of course, nothing a little early morning concussion can't fix."

"Oh I didn't kick you that hard, really I thought over-dramatics was strictly an Upper East Side disease but apparently it's now spread across the bridge." She's smirking at him a little, lips pulled up slightly as she sips her coffee again.

"What?" Her expression is more than puzzling, and this hour of the morning only permitted minimal cerebral functioning.

"What do you mean what?"

"Your expression. You look – well I'm not really sure…"

"Oh, it's just, this feels normal…" and her eyes flicker downwards.

"Me sleeping on your bed?"

"Uh no, like usual you miss the point. I meant us, you know…"

"You think us being here, like this, is normal?"

"No! I just…I don't know just forget it."

"No, no I get it. You mean we aren't acting strange after what – you know last night with the – oh okay maybe you were right, maybe we should never, ever bring it up."

"That's probably the best decision."

"So there's nothing here…"

"Nothing…" she breathes out the last word, eyes locked on his. And then silence befalls them.

She can hear the rustle of the sheets as she shift uncomfortably and he struggles to sit up. He can hear her sipping her coffee from the porcelain cup balanced delicately in her hands. Neither can hear the other's heart breaking as their decision takes a hammer to it.

"Would you like some…" 

"No, no I should probably go. After the whole Lily thing last night, I just think that my dad probably needs me right now." 

"Of course."

He slips himself off the bed, grabbing his coat and scarf that he took off at some (unknown) point. As he turns to say goodbye, he finds her standing barefoot behind him in that same pink dress, looking so, so innocent.

"Well, goodbye." She tries her damn hardest to sound nonchalant, but the words tumble out in a broken rhythm that sings sadness.

"Goodbye, Waldorf…" and he thinks he's possessed because when he speaks to her it's like his brain disconnects from his body and he suddenly fins his mouth doing something other than talking.

It's not like the first. It's not like the second. It's something of pure sadness as he leans down and presses his lips softly against her.

It's short, but just as terrifying.

The queen stands alone watching the rook disappear across the chessboard.

…

A/N: review review review if you will.


	2. A Cautionary Tale of Humphrey and Scotch

A/N: So I debated back and forth whether to make this just a one-shot and then make this another new story, but I've decided to make the first chapter more of a prelude. So consider this the true beginning of sorts. THIS DOES NOT PICK UP FROM WHERE THE PRELUDE LEFT OFF. It's a tad jumbled, as is my writing, but I think it conveys the message that I want. As for timeline, it starts right before Blair leaves for Monaco. Those parts longer than a sentence in _italics are memories, _because completely linear story lines are quite as interesting. Oh, and spoilers through the finale.

Disclaimer: disclaimed.

...

a cautionary tale of Humphrey and scotch

...

Six months ago, had you asked him what would become of a quasi-friendship between him and Blair Waldorf, the answer would have included yelling, bickering, the occasional old movie or art opening, and a migraine. Surprisingly, leaning over the kitchen counter, NYU mug of scotch in hand, he finds this not to be even close to the truth. He thinks, in this setting, drinking over a lost girl, his melodramatic and tormented writer side is taking reigns of his life.

A long, fluid knock echoes about the loft and his drunken head looks up to the outline of someone outside his door. Door open, a whirlwind of blonde sweeps past him, spilling words into the air and placing a bottle of something bound to kill his liver on the counter.

"Why do I never choose me?" She pauses, looking his direction with some sort of lost hope, that he may somehow know the answer to her all together unanswerable question. He says nothing, but plops another mug on the counter.

Drink one (he's had a head start but it's really all the same in the end). She's unhappy. He's unhappy.

Drink two. She can't believe all her relationships have failed. He wishes he'd had one recently.

Drink three. She misses spending time with him. He agrees.

Drink seven. She should have chosen between him and Nate. He shouldn't have let he string him along.

Drink nine. She should've gone to Brown. He should've stayed in Brooklyn.

Drink ten. She shouldn't have believed man X, Y, and Z when they told her they'd love her forever. He shouldn't have ever become friends with Blair Waldorf.

He remembers two (three, four, six, it's all a blur) hours later, they're on the floor, sitting and sloppily drinking and ranting. She weaves drunken tales of her failed romances and decisions. He slurs on about unintended and unreturned feelings. They laugh and complain and remember, and there might have been a kiss at some point, but it's all meaningless and comfortable and old.

In the morning, he finds a lack of blonde radiating in the sunlight loft; a post-it note sticks to the counter, and scribbled on it reads:

_Some day, you'll get the girl, and she'll be yours forever._

The post-it note then finds itself tucked away, stuck to one of the few Audrey Hepburn DVDs in his collection.

…

_Private jet to Monaco. Departure time 9:00 AM. _Her computer screen has a harsh light on her eyes at this time of night. Leaning back slightly, she catches a glimpse of her ring flashing in light and it all seems so permanent. She hears talk of flowers and place settings, sees images of cream and champagne fabrics so luxurious they should melt between her fingertips, and feels Louis's slender hands sliding down her arms while he whispers sweet nothings. It's both terrifying and exhilarating.

She closes her eyes to the light, and remember the past hours. Her mother is sketching like mad, throwing fabric left and right, and yelling in French at frightened twenty-something interns; she did promise she would practice her French for her visit later that summer. Her step-father is pulling all of his ornithology books from the library (along with a French to English dictionary, should the interns not provide enough practice). Chuck is sending her a note (that reeks of whiskey and pot) from some country in Europe with best wishes for a safe trip, along with a picture of him and Nate in front of some statue – a picture she's sure they only took for her approval. Serena is flouncing around the city, readying herself for her self-exploration vacation by picking up copious amounts of sunscreen, paperback romance novels, a yoga mat, and a few items that won't make it past airport security. Louis is taking her to every store on 5th Avenue, smiling the entire way, even as his arms begin to numb from all the bags.

She realizes her day was only missing one brown-haired Brooklynite – one who she hadn't heard from in quite some time. Cell phone pressed against her ear, it took four rings for him to drawl out a hello.

"So I was thinking a comedy might be a fitting choice for my departure. Leave things on a humorous note."

"A comedy? Blair, what are you talking about?" His exasperation echoing against her ear, and she's not sure what she did to deserve it.

"A film, Humphrey, honestly, what else would I be talking about?"

"Oh, well I assumed you didn't want Nate, Chuck and I to perform some sort of Three Stooges skit to send you off. Although the idea of hitting Chuck Bass in the face with a cream pie does sound alluring…"

"You're rambling." She's pretty sure a giggle accompanied that statement.

"Yes, right, so a comedy. Any particular one you had in mind." She can hear the clicking of his keyboard dancing in the background.

An hour later, she's curled her legs up with his voice humming in her ear as movie plays on in the darkness of her bedroom. As she watches the black and white couple kiss on the screen, she stuck with a empty feeling that his voice alone can't seem to fill. When her eyes finally close for the night, she sees a very different couple kissing in black and white.

She boards her flight the next morning with hand firmly intertwined with Louis's and a goodbye text from him.

…

He calls her that night, just to make sure her plane safely landed; honestly though, his fingers were on autopilot when they dialed her. She answers with a "Bonjour" and he knows to not call as much. She didn't get kidnapped by some evil billionaire for the summer, but flew away with a genuine prince to a far away land. He remembers, as he sips his coffee in shop just obscure enough to be cool, that a princess doesn't need saving from her fairytale ending.

He wishes her a good time and manages out a semi-decent "au revoir" before he's back to staring at his laptop, waiting for inspiration that isn't in the form of a brunette in a pink dress kissing him in the dark.

But none else comes, and his mind is too tired to do this run around, so he lets his muse lead his fingers skipping over the keys. Even in imaginary form she's controlling and pushy.

He's heard in copious lectures, and the occasional over-dramatic movie about the trials of being a writer, that the best writing comes out of the writer's life; experience dictates art. Right now she's his experience.

His fingers sprint to keep up with this memory running far ahead to a future he's dreaming about all to much for the past couple weeks.

_Pink all over, she's standing there (yes, actually standing there) waiting for him to kiss her, and no he's not dreaming and she's not running, and the world has stopped. They've been here before, and he's struck in the face with the obvious similarity of it all – she's waiting, he's inwardly freaking out. _

"_Okay, I think I caught a glimpse of him just behind us. Now, I think if we stand right about…here, he'll get a good view." She's grabbing his lapels and pushing him into position, and oh yes, he's been here before._

"_Humphrey, hello? Are you listening to me?" _

"_What?" Eyes are refocused on her in the present, because he can think of the past all he wants later, when he's not kissing her._

"_Kiss me." It's a demand like most all sentences that her perfect lips form._

_And so, because he really can't say no – and he's pretty sure he really doesn't want to, sadly – he does what he should have that night. If fate was giving him a redo, he was going to run like hell with it. Pushing every ounce of nervousness out, he's pulled her up against him and kissed her before her startled breath can leave her lips._

_Like warm champagne with a splash of bourbon, she's sweetly intoxicating with a taste of bitterness. Her small hands are sliding up his chest to his neck and her tongue is suddenly warring with his own. They are once again alone in their own world, and he's forgotten why they are here in the first place, but he's wondering, as his hand threatens to mess up her nearly perfect hairdo, how much closer they can get without having to take something off – a thought only furthered by her small body pressing even more into him. _

_Finally there's a need for air and space and thinking because, damn, that was not supposed to be like that. She's standing once again in front of him, cheeks now flushed from more than just her make-up, and drawing in ragged breaths so unladylike. He's trying to catch his running breath, the memory of her body against his imprinted in his bones. She draws in one long breath, and her body calms as he watches the tension – that he's pretty sure him and his hands put there – seep off her pinked skin. _

"_We should probably…" and "yeah, we should…" follow in quick succession and he's following her (like always)._

…

The warm sun trickling in the window does nothing to keep her awake. The clouds rolling softly along beside her are like the proverbial sheep and all she's missing is a fence. Louis presses a gentle kiss on her forehead before slipping off to talk with some Embassy guy who was accompanying them. She can faintly hear the fluid French in the background as she slips away.

_Her feet ache. Her pink dress was becoming increasingly constricting. Her hair had fallen some time before and she really should be anywhere but here. _

_It's close to five in the morning and she's slipped out of Louis's hotel room before any eyes can fall on her, and with an angry blonde sulking at home, her tired body carries her to a place she's become all to familiar with._

"_Do you know what time it is?" _

"_Of course, I do. I'm not a moron." Normally, she would have barged in already, but she's letting him control the board right now._

"_And, you thought, well I'm up so the rest of the world must be as well."  
_

"_You're hardly the rest of my world Humphrey."  
_

"_Since when am I even a puzzle piece of it Waldorf." There's more than playful witticism lacing his words for his (just recently realized) handsome faced is screwed up in almost an exasperated scowl and it's far too Chuck Bass for her comfort._

"_I came to say thank you."_

"_Do you want a drink?"_

"_It's five in the morning Humphrey."_

"_Well at least I know now that you recognize the absurdity of your timing."_

"_It's a little early to be drinking."_

"_I thought I'd get a jump start on that alcoholic-writer stereotype." He's downing what she's pretty sure isn't coffee from a ceramic NYU mug. "You haven't changed yet?"_

"_Neither have you."_

"_You know, it's a quite a dress Blair."_

"_Why thank you Carson, will the rest of the Queer Eye guys be joining us later to compliment my stellar application choice of shoes?" A smirk to lighten the progressively darkening mood._

"_Ha, verrrrrrrry funny." Her feet have only made a couple inches in the door over the span of their conversation but suddenly he's a couple breaths away from her._

"_Exactly how much have you drunk?"_

_His answer was less of a thought and more of an action, because his hand is trailing up the satin of her pink dress and his lips are brushing faintly across hers. Lips to ear, he mumbles softly._

"_We could have been great."_

_She can't feel the pain in her feet as she races out on to the sidewalk, sucking in all the morning air she can. Leaning against the wall (that she's temporarily forgot is in Brooklyn and probably festering some sort of mutated parasite), she lets her heart pound in her chest, helpless to stop it; she entirely hates everything about Brooklyn._

The squeeze of her hand jolts her from her memories, and her eyes adjust to Louis's face before her.

"What were you dreaming about?" She finds his slight mispronunciation of each work endearing.

"Oh, nothing." She smiles, laying her free hand on his smooth cheek and kissing him demurely.

She had asked called him later that night, for reasons she didn't want to think too much about. He had sounded like he'd been run over by a taxi, a fact she relayed to him and was met with a hearty laugh and a complaint that she was hurting his head by being funny. He had confessed he didn't remember much from the past night and had laughed once again. She had said thank you (again) and he had laughed about how he'd thought he'd never get a thank you out of Blair Waldorf without some serious coercion.

…

A/N: and would you review, she asks kindly.


	3. Oh Those Monday Tirades

A/N: this fic is running itself and unfortunately feels a tad unfocused. I want it to be slow and realistic without being boring and uneventful. As for timeline, still early summer.

…

oh those Monday tirades.

…

The palace is, well, huge and a tad confusing. She thinks she might consult Louis for a better tour because it's rather embarrassing to keep walking into closets looking for the parlor. But it's all burgundy and gold and regal; each piece of furniture looks older than her country, and for the first time, she feels almost unfit to live in a place so extravagant.

She's found her hideaway, terrace on the west with spanning views of the oh so blue sea. And so she's leaning against the rod-iron banister, the warmth licking her sun-kissed skin, when he calls.

"So I have this thing tonight and, you know, it's no big deal but I have to cancel on our movie tonight. Not that I don't want to watch _Charade_ for the tenth time, it's just…"

She lets him ramble, unsure why but it might have something to do with the heaven she's currently inhabiting.

"It's fine." She's trying to remember why he was calling her, but she's far too distracted.

"Sure, of course, well, I should go, but how about tomorrow night?" He sounds an odd mix of relief and hopefulness.

"Blair. Blair. _Blair._"

"What, Humphrey?"

"Have you been listening to me at all?"

"Of course, I have."

"Well then, what did I say?"

"Well, you said you have a thing tonight and have to cancel our movie. Wait, what is this thing, Humphrey? We have a standing date for this movie and what exactly do you have that's so important in Brooklyn that you have to cancel on _me. _You know, I'm making the effort to put you in my busy schedule."

"Wait, wait, you said it was fine that I couldn't do it." He sounds exasperated and she's now irritated and they're a whole damn mess exploding over shaking cell phone reception.

"I don't remember saying that, and it is most certainly _not _fine."

"Well why would you, since you weren't even paying attention!"

"I was paying attention! Believe or not, not every word that rambles out of your unfiltered mouth is worthy of being methodically transcribed."

"Oh, but everything you say is oh so clever."

"Don't get sarcastic with me Humphrey…"

"Whatever Waldorf, you can go watch _Charade_ by yourself in your fancy palace. Oh, and if you must know I have a date tonight." She feels so many insults and retorts burgeoning to leap off her tongue but the click of the phone halts them instantly. Lips pursed, she makes her way back into the library to which the terrace is attached.

Comfortable in a leather arm chair she's pretty sure is the newest thing in this room, she pulls up her laptop. She's caught by the slight irony of her place at the moment, sitting alone with only books and movies as company, while he's stressing over what would impress a girl more, vest or jacket, tie or no tie. If it weren't for being in a palace at the moment, she'd be pretty sure someone had freaky Friday-ed her life with his.

Tonight's much more of a _Rosemary's Baby_ night anyways.

…

She's quite pretty. She's quite smart. She's quite funny. And she's looking at him with quite a look, one that's begging him to lean across the table separating them.

And he would, he _really _would, but all he can think is she's not _that _pretty. She's not _that _smart. She's not _that _funny. And as she begins to lean her way across the table (a move he's critically finding a bit on the awkward side), he's hating her eagerness. It's alarming, but he's the chaser, not the one ever chased.

She tastes like cotton candy, sickly sweet, and he's half-expecting her to pull away and invite him to come back to her place to see her unicorn collection.

He takes her hand anyways after paying the check, and he finds them strolling along the streets in the bask of the streaming taxi headlights. She's rambling on (something they have in common he notes) about the beauty of the city. She's overwhelmed here – NYU transfer student from Nebraska who's previous idea of a metropolitan area was Omaha – but loving every minute of it, a fact that she has repeated thrice over the course of the date. She asks him what he thinks of New York.

He's taken aback; no one really ever asked him that being that he had lived here for his entire life.

"It's glamorous, but down-to-earth in places. It's hard and cruel, but comforting, if you know where to go. It combines a love and reverence for the old while thriving to find the burgeoning new. It's…inspiring and down right aggravating at times…"

Her eyes have taken that starry look and she's sighing with a small and admiring smile. He's pretty sure he lost her in all his contradictions.

"Wow, it sounds like you really love her." She's smiling even wider, and he swears there's pink crawling slowly across her cheeks but he can't tell in the whirring lights.

"Her?"

"Yeah, you know how people call boats 'she'? Well I always figured people did the same thing for cities and such. I mean, people always talk about them as if they were something more than concrete and big buildings. Like they have a soul. I don't know, I always pictured New York as a woman, like that woman from that one movie. Oh, what was it called? Breakfast or something…"

"_Breakfast at Tiffany's?_"

"Yeah, that's the one."

"I see what you are saying…"

"She, New York I mean, she's tough but beautiful. She's, well, exactly like you described. I mean, if someone had overheard you, they would've figured you were talking about a woman." She giggles, and effortlessly breaks the intellectual grasp she's had on his attention during her diatribe.

She's now pulling him down the street, singing something about ice cream and wanting a waffle cone, and he's still mulling over her observation. He fumbles around for his phone in his pocket while trying not to crash into anything as she skips along the street, hands still tethered together.

_Have you ever realized you are a lot like New York? _He types quite accurately given that he nearly ran into an old woman who's still yelling in what he thinks is Armenian as they skid around the corner. She stops suddenly and mumbles something about being sure the ice cream place was around here.

Eleven blocks later – it turns out she was quite off – he's standing in line paying for their ice cream as she licks some pink bubblegum mess dusted with rainbow sprinkles sitting atop a waffle cone. As pockets his change, his phone beeps.

_Oh God Humphrey, this isn't another one of your ill-conceived attempts at a literary metaphor is it? I'm far to busy to point out all the problems with it…_

He smiles slightly, and tunes back into whatever she is talking about as they make their way outside again.

"So, where to?" He interjects and waits for her to pull him off in another (probably wrong) direction for something else they don't have in Nebraska.

"I don't know. Why you show me your lady?"

"My lady?" He's choking on his ice cream – he wasn't even sure that was physically possible to do until now.

"New York silly."

"Right, my lady." He inwardly thinks 'his lady' is sitting in Monaco right now probably yelling at some servant that her dress wasn't pressed properly, but he stops that train of thought (because she's not really _his _per se) before he ends up in some depressed and annoyed state. "Well, I hope you are ready a Dan Humphrey tour of the Great New York City. Now over there, we have the Empire State building, and over there, we have the Chrysler building. And on that corner, we have a drunk guy peeing against a wall…"

She's laughing next to him, as she links their arms, and they start to walk along the blocks.

…

They had decided on Mondays, well, she had decided but what's honestly difference. A set day per week, one which she had painstakingly taken into consideration for what she assumed was a frantic social calendar, but no, here she is on a Monday, in a ball gown (well, that's not really the problem, she _loves _de la Renta), at a parliamentary dinner listening to dignitaries on her left discuss the domestic ramifications of the state of Europe's economy and their insipid trophy wives on her right clamor on about what shade of blonde was in at the moment. She sits there, ram rod straight, even with Louis's calming hand running softly up and down her back, and she should be enjoying this. She _should _be injecting quips about financial investments and how ash blonde would not flatter the diplomat's wife's coloring. But no, she's sitting here loathing everything, the world she wants to fit in like a puzzle piece, all because he screwed it up.

Honestly, she has no idea why about to burst with anger and frustration but damn him, damn him and his stupid Brooklyn loft and his French cinema collection and his existentialist poetry and she just wishes Brooklyn would get swallowed be some freak tsunami.

Louis whispers something soft and laced with worry (she notes though the hint of contempt at her behavior, because she's supposed to be making a good impression here), and she just politely excuses herself.

Standing there in one of the many marbled bathrooms in the palace (she vaguely remembers something about thirty-two bathrooms and such), she realizes just how crazy she's being, but she's already at the second ring.

He picks up at the fourth ring, almost incredulous.

And all she remembers is the sound of her voice echoing against the stone for minutes on end, each word dropping off her lips like an atom bomb on Brooklyn and she feels…lighter.

Only after she sucks in a breath does she realize she's been listening to a dial tone for over a minute. She mumbles something of an embarrassed apology, listening to it ring on the walls.

…

Somewhere between Manhattan and the Hamptons, he hangs up on her berating tirade, watching the green grass race along side the town car as they take a bend. He sips his coffee calmly, having vowed scotch as something only acceptable after seven in the evening, and runs his hand down his face. Dear lord, she really is _something. _

Ten minutes later, he feels anger start to bubble up, but damn it, he isn't going to dwell on this.

Sixteen minutes later, Faulkner officially abandoned on the seat beside him, he's making a mental list of every reason he hates her right now.

Thirty-one minutes later, he's added a splash of whatever is in the flask he found in the seat pocket (most probably Chuck's) to his coffee and now it's very, very Irish. He thinks she's overreacting; it was one date and it's not like he meant for it. He knew the schedule, but god, he didn't think it was this concrete. Then again, he really should have known; it is Blair after all. He screwed up her perfect little schedule and now her sharp little tongue was going to throw knives at him until he comes back to her, crawling on his knees.

Thirty-five minutes later, he did nothing wrong. He should be the one yelling.

Forty-nine minutes later, he realizes he may, just _may_, have hurt the great Queen's feelings. At one time, he thinks this might have felt like a victory, but all he feels is guilty and empty and drunk (damn flask).

When he wakes the next morning, under the peaking sun of the Hamptons in all its white-washed glory, he finds a message from her.

_Is there a better day for you? I mean, since you seem to have relegated Monday as "date night". _

He knows there's an apology under the slight perturbation of her words, but he's not straining to see it. He knows a mumbled on is waiting for him on the other end of a phone call in the future.

_We'll always be Mondays. _He doesn't know if it makes much sense, but the hangover pounding a tiny hammer against his brain at the moment isn't giving him much wit.

…

The next Monday he calls her promptly at eight-thirty.

…

A/N: hi, review please.


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